Changes
by mad margaret
Summary: Willie Loomis, you just unleashed an evil, undead monster. What are you going to do now? Find out what happened to Collinsport's bad boy when he disappeared for several days and came back a changed man. Part 4 of the Willie Loomis World Series, Rewritten with deleted scenes. Next chapter: Day Six, the exciting conclusion!
1. Day One

**Part IV: **_**Changes**_

**Starring: **Willie and Barnabas. Co-starring Jason, Vicki, Roger, David, Burke, Liz, Horace the Caretaker and Bob the Bartender

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Dark Shadows nor any other copyrighted material contained herein.

**Summary: **_Changes_ explores the events which occurred over six days from the time Willie released the vampire until he and Barnabas move into the Old House.

**A/N: **This is the fourth story in the Willie Loomis World Series. The preceding pieces are _Little Willie_, _Globetrotters_ and _The Maine Event_. References are made to events from previous installments.

_Little Willie_ began in 1956. Ergo, Willie is 24 years old in 1981.

_Barnabas' telepathic thoughts to Willie are italicized and underlined_.

* * *

**Day One **

**October 1981**

_You're a little hustler, aren't you?_

_Proud and insolent youth, said Hook, prepare to meet thy doom._

_You shanty Irish bastard._

_Some people get things they don't deserve._

_Novocain for the brain_

_It says here you like to steal things. There's no tolerance for that sort of behavior here. You'll learn your lesson the hard way. What is the seventh commandment?_

_Someday I won't be there to save your arse, and if you're not careful, you'll go down, m'lad._

A jumble of words swam in Willie's head as he regained consciousness on the cold, flagstone floor.

_Barnabas. Its name is Barnabas. The guy in the picture. _He sat up, trying to recollect his thoughts, despite a fuzzy, achy head.

_Shit, I was conned by a—vampire._

He crawled over to the flashlight, which still emitted a feeble glow, and with it surveyed the room. The vampire was nowhere to be seen. Good. The tomb's hidden chamber in which he sat was sealed shut. Not good.

The young man could make out a coffin, which stood in the middle of the room on its bier, and the knapsack and tools he brought, which lay scattered on the floor. In one—no, two—corners were tall, carved wooden candlesticks, but the beeswax candles they once held had long since melted and contributed to the mottled colors of the flagstone floor. There were empty sconces on the wall.

Willie had watched enough horror movies and read enough comic books to know all about vampires. He never believed they really existed before, but he didn't believe in God either, or anything else that was intangible. This was possibly a good time to reconsider these hypotheses.

_Sweet Jesus, get me outta here._

He addressed heaven by shining the flashlight to the ceiling and recited what he could remember of the prayer about being sorry.

_Omygod, I am heart'ly sorry for havin' offended thee _

_And I detest all my sins _

_Because I dread the laws of heaven and the pains of hell_

_But, most of all – something something _

_I firmly resolve with the–something, shit—_

_To amen my life amen._

His act of contrition was apparently unworthy of acknowledgment by God or anyone else. The flashlight exhausted its remaining power and died in his hand.

Willie pulled out his cigarette lighter and with it located the discarded knapsack. In there, along with tools, were two dinner candles, 12-inch tapers he had pinched from the butler's pantry at Collinwood. The boy pulled himself to a standing position and, when the room stopped spinning, lit one and shoved it into a sconce. The bleak flickering illumination from that single source made the room look spookier than before.

Maybe it was daytime and the evil fiend was asleep in its thing. In that case Willie could destroy it with . . . something. Unfortunately, he had neglected to pack crosses, stakes, garlic or whatever else comes in a vampire-killing kit. He cautiously lifted the lid of the casket and peeked inside.

Unoccupied. The monster must be out on the town. It may return at some point and kill him—or not return and Willie would just starve to death. He rummaged through his pockets for a candy bar, gum, anything, but came up with car keys, old matches, cigarettes and 17 cents. The seams of the knapsack interior yielded nothing but a sprinkling of crumbs mixed with lint.


	2. Day Two

**A/N: **Please see Chapter 1

_Barnabas' telepathic thoughts to Willie are italicized and underlined_.

* * *

**Day Two **

Willie spent the next several hours hunting for what must be a way out of this room—and this nightmare. Systematically, he pushed each stone on the wall and the floor, felt under the coffin, rotated the sconces— nothing worked. He was about to examine the steps to the entrance when the door began to open.

The young man froze as he heard the slow grind of stone against stone. _Oh shit, it's back._ He scurried across the room and hid crouched in the shadow of the far side of the coffin, from where again was heard the sound of stone moving as the slab closed. When he looked up, the vampire was peering down at him.

"Ah, there you are." The monster smiled. "I apologize for leaving you alone, but there were things which had to be tended to."

Willie observed that the vampire was no longer wearing decayed and tattered velvets and lace, but sported a dark gray suit and carried a caped overcoat and an elegant, slender walking stick topped with the head of a wolf. He placed the cane and cloak on the coffin and extended his hand. Hesitantly, Willie accepted it and stood.

"I am so pleased to meet you in person. You have done me a great service, Willie. That is your name, I believe. For many years I have observed and attempted to communicate with the living through my portrait, but you were the first person with the insight to notice."

_Drunken stupidity, more like it_.

"No doubt you are correct." Barnabas replied to the young man's unspoken statement.

Willie stared at him, speechless. The vampire was a tall, broad-shouldered figure of a man with dark features and high cheekbones. He would have been handsome but for his pale skin and sunken eyes that smiled and burned through you at the same time. Despite his imposing stature, he moved with grace and confidence, like a demonic panther.

"I will take my rest now," the vampire stated, settling into the casket. "I suggest you do the same. Tomorrow evening will bring new adventures, will they not?" Barnabas complacently folded his hands as his new associate continued to gape at the dead man lying there—until it said, "Close the lid, boy," without opening his eyes.

Willie did as he was told and then sat in the corner, but he couldn't sleep. Shivering in the damp cold, famished, exhausted and still a little woozy, he stared into space, considering whether or not to blow out the candle and save it for later. But he didn't want to be in the dark, not with that thing in the room.

Okay, so it did come back, but it didn't kill him; didn't even threaten to kill him. It actually seemed kind of nice—well, after the initial encounter when it had smashed its liberator against the stone wall and chomped into him with such veracity. Willie rubbed his head. He could feel the wounds on his neck; they itched a little but didn't really hurt; he had had hickeys that were more painful. His back, however, still ached from the body slam and he might have a concussion. But it could just be the beginnings of a monster hangover.

Maybe he could leave tomorrow. The thing wouldn't keep him locked in there forever. It would know that humans needed food and water and sleep. Food. Water. Sleep. Food. Water. Sleep. Food. Water. Sleep. Willie closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself in another place, one with a soft bed and a big, downy comforter. He was startled back to reality only when the last remnant of candle wick fell into hot liquid wax and extinguished itself with a sizzle.

* * *

During what one could only assume were the daylight hours, Willie sat in his corner, rocking back and forth in the dark, listening to thunder and rain pelting the roof. He ate the tobacco in his cigarettes, and the nicotine rush made him light headed and nauseated, and more dehydrated. The boy wondered if he would have the nerve to drink his own urine, but there was nothing to use for a container, and he was too dried out to squeeze a drop.

Willie entertained himself by inventing the Chilly Willie Radio Hour wherein he recited dialogue from his favorite movie and played all the roles.

"Do you think I care if there was just beer in that keg? I know what's in it, Tom. I know what you've been doing all this time, how you got those clothes and those new cars. You murderer! There's not only beer in that jug. There's beer and blood—blood of men!"

Then, in a high pitched tone: "I know, Tom, but I-I wish that..."

"There you go with that wishin' stuff again. I wish you was a wishing well. So that I could tie a bucket to ya and sink ya." He pushed an imaginary grapefruit half into his invisible acting partner's face.

"Why that dirty, no good, yellow-bellied stool. I'm gonna give it to him right in the head the first time I see him. Pow pow!" He punched the air with a double jab. (1)

He sang every song he ever remembered hearing on the radio or Denny Malone's record player, often misinterpreting the tune or lyrics, but there was no one to criticize.

_Every time I thought I'd got it made, it seemed the taste was not so sweet  
So I turned myself to face me, but I never caught a glimpse  
Of how others must see the faker—I'm much too fast to take that test_

_Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes – turn and face the strain – ch-ch-changes  
Don't wanna be a richer man_

_Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes – Just gonna have to be a diff'rent man  
Time may change me  
But I can't change time. _(2)

The solitary figure flicked his Bic on and off, or held it aloft.

"_There's a light—over at the Frankenstein Place . ._ ." (3)

After several hours, the lighter died, leaving him again in total darkness.

Willie figured the sun must have gone down outside when he heard the coffin lid creak open and the vampire rise unaided from his coffin, grumbling that the young man's incoherent ramblings had kept him awake most of the day.

"Why are you in the dark? Light a candle, boy," the monster said congenially. "I have no need of it, but of course you do." Willie rose to his feet and groped the air like a blind man. "Please. Allow me to assist."

But, instead of handing him the taper, it seized his arm. The other man struggled in the blackness, but Barnabas had the advantage. Ripping the shirt sleeve, the vampire sunk his teeth into the young man's wrist. Willie yanked and yelled, but the predator pulled him close in a vice-like embrace until his body went limp and again, he lost consciousness.

* * *

The candle stood flickering in its holder as Willie woke up, lying in the open coffin where the vampire had placed him. _Shit, no._ The young man sprang up, flung his legs over the side and fell with a thud to the floor. Barnabas sat on the entrance steps, with a slightly amused look, reading the local newspaper. The stone door behind him was open.

"Good, you're awake." he folded the paper and stood, "I have an errand for you. Come." He helped the young man get up on his wobbly legs and lent support as he led him out the door while delivering instructions. Then the gentleman bid Willie farewell to return, he said, to his chronicle of current events and, perhaps, a little quiet solitude.

Willie walked through the iron scroll gate of the tomb and stood temporarily disoriented in the moonlit cemetery.

_A cow? Where the fuck am I supposed to get a cow? _

The old caretaker approached, holding a battery-powered lantern to his face. "This graveyard closes at sundown. What are you doing here?" He pointed a quivering, arthritic finger at Willie. "You must not disturb the dead. They will not rest in peace."

"Please. No spooky talk right now, okay? I gotta find a cow."

The caretaker dropped his haunted old man act, which he had created mostly for bothersome teenagers who climbed the fence at night. "Then you're in the wrong place, Jack. This ain't a pet cemetery."

"What? No—look, where's the nearest farm? Like, one with cows?"

The old man scratched his head. "Guessin' that would be Tanner's Dairy Farm down on Alms-House Road." He pointed south and Willie walked away, dragging his feet on the ground. "Kids nowadays. I don't get it." The groundskeeper headed back to his cottage, shaking his head.

It took a while for Willie to remember on which back street he had hidden the pickup truck. Once inside, he gunned the engine so the heat would kick in a little faster while scavenging through the glove compartment for sustenance. The litter on the floor yielded nothing but a petrified sliver of what was once a French fry and the congealed remains of a half empty ketchup packet.

The young man uncrumpled a wad of waxed paper with the intention of licking off greasy residue when he caught his reflection in the rearview mirror. It was probably the pale dashboard light, but the kid didn't think his color looked so good. There was also a faded bruise on his cheek from Burke Devlin's punch, but the wounds on his neck had almost completely healed, and most recent the ones on his wrist were already scabbing. There were dark, blotchy circles under his eyes and scratchy stubble on his chin, like some bum on a bender. Willie looked away in disgust.

_Stop gawkin' at yerself and let's go. Gotta find a shit-kickin' cow. _

Wait—why was he even thinking about cows? Willie was sprung—he was out of that horrible room! The young man hit the interior light and grabbed the map to ascertain his location.

_Don't ya worry, Mr. Devlin, I am leavin' town right now_. _Forget the duffle, screw the money, just start drivin'. Find the first road outta here and don't stop._ He threw the clutch into second gear and ripped down the street. _Don't stop for nothin'. _

He stopped on Alms-House Road in front of Tanner's Farm.

Willie sat in his truck in stunned silence, then suddenly began to yell and beat the steering wheel with his fists in frustration. That's why Barnabas had let him go—because there was no risk of flight. The vampire had control of his mind.

_Well, you finally figured that out. Now stop tarrying. I do not like to be kept waiting__. _

_Shit._ "I hear ya." _Don't want to piss off the vampire._

He climbed out of the cab and rummaged though his possessions in the truck bed for a length of rope and another flashlight.

The Tanner Family house was a good distance away atop a hill so Willie climbed the fence unobserved and headed across the pasture toward what had to be the barn. Inside were rows of stalls filled with dozing cattle. They were standing up and lying down, mostly facing the wall. It smelled like, well, a barn. Willie had a recollection of running drunk down the streets of Pamplona in Spain, chased by stampeding bulls. There were no males here, though; this must be the girls' dorm.

He entertained the notion of getting some milk, but Willie was a city boy who had never before seen one of these big-ass creatures up close, unless it was on a bun with onions, but he remembered the procedure performed many times in cartoons. There were no buckets in sight; this farm used metal milking machines attached to a big rubber hose which ran the length of the barn. The kid dropped to all fours and peeked uncertainly at a cow's swollen udder and long, floppy teats. The old girl kicked him in the head with a muddy hoof.

_Focus on your task, boy!_

Willie stood in the middle of the room, considering the logistics of the situation. Even if he could get one of these heifers out the door and across the field, he'd have to lift it over the fence and get it into the back of the truck. Never mind securing it back there, driving through town and delivering it unnoticed to the mausoleum. The whole idea was bat-shit crazy.

It was going to have to be a little one. The smallest calf in the place still weighed more than what Willie could comfortably carry, even on a good day. Nevertheless, he pushed the baby bovine to a standing position, tied the rope around its neck like a leash, and attempted to lead it out of the stall. Its mother mooed and, lifting her rear leg, kicked Willie with a double jab, sending him onto the straw covered floor. The older cow continued to moo and cry out and she was soon joined by the others.

_Damn, this is going to bring Farmer Jones running in here with a pitchfork—Farmer Tanner, whatever._

He attempted to pick up the calf to carry him out, but mother cow turned around in her stall and head butted him into the straw and mud. No, wait, that wasn't mud. _Shit._

Willie grabbed the rope and headed out, the calf trotting fearfully beside him. He slammed the door shut just as the cow chorus reached a crescendo. Willie yanked the animal across the pasture while looking for an exit strategy, but it was frightened and resisted. He pulled and pushed it until at last they reached the fence. However, no gate could be found. Willie wrapped his arms around the calf's legs and attempted to lift it, but the beast was too heavy, and the man's strength was sapped. He fell backward and the cow landed on top of him.

The little calf dug in his hooves as it scrambled to its feet while Willie lay there in the dirt and grass. The baby backed away and cried.

"I know how ya feel, but ya can't do that." Willie pulled himself to his knees and looked into the cow's face. "Crying is for pussies." It looked back with a whimper, its eyes wide with terror. The boy put his arms around its neck and hugged. "It's gonna be okay, little guy. . . I hope." He dropped back on his heels in despair and, with no idea of what to do next, stroked the little calf until its quaking subsided.

"_There was a dusky Eurasian maid  
__In old Karate she plied her trade  
__And in Calcutta and in Madras  
__And by special request up the Khyber Pass"_(4)

"Are you _singing_ to that cow?" Barnabas was standing beside him. "I had no idea you would find my simple instructions so difficult. I told you to bring me the animal, not befriend it."

Both man and beast were startled by the vampire's sudden presence. "I-I d-d-don—" Willie stammered.

The vampire held up his hand. "Please. Our time is short. Sit over there and think about what you want to say, and I will tend to this business."

"B-b-but—"

"Sit." Willie plopped down by the fence. "Stay."

Barnabas turned his attention to the cow. Willie was gripped with an instinct to run. Climb the fence and run like hell while the vampire was otherwise occupied. But as he started to rise, his eyes latched onto two shiny black shoes, flecked with blood. Standing directly overhead was a policeman, holding a billy club in one hand and handcuffs in the other. His face was a grinning death mask. Willie squeezed his eyes shut and clutched the wooden post in terror, finally realizing there was no escape from the vampire. It knew his every future thought and past memory. It was as if the monster had reached in and tore out his soul.

"You, boy." He opened his eyes. The apparition had vanished and the cow's carcass lay on the grass. "Return to the mausoleum and—oh dear, what have you gotten yourself into? That odor is most unpleasant." Barnabas disappeared and a bat flew away into the night.

Willie looked sadly at the cow's corpse before standing up to brush the dirt from his pants. "Must be a king," he said to the cadaver, climbing back over the fence to his truck. "How can ya tell? He hasn't got shit all over him." (5)

* * *

1 _Public Enemy_ (1931)  
2 _Changes_ (1971), David Bowie  
3 _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_ (1975)  
4 sung to the tune of _Greensleeves  
_5 quote from _Monty Python and the Holy Grail _(1974)


	3. Day Three (Plan B)

_**Please see Chapter 1 for A/N**_

* * *

There were more candles now, and Willie had three lit: one in its holder and the other two stuck with melted wax to the floor. He needed light for the task at hand. It had been three days without food, water or sleep—If Barney Baby wasn't going to let him go free, it was time to implement Plan B.

The second wooden candlestick had been smashed against the wall, and with his switchblade the industrious young man spent his day whittling, carving and slicing it into a point at one end. His blade was dulled and the subsequent workmanship poor, but it didn't have to be pretty; it just had to work.

The ancient candlestick was not cooperative. As Willie stabbed at it, he felt like his muscles were turning to jelly, along with an achy head and raw throat. Occasionally, his stomach would seize up in spasms, but at least he didn't feel hungry any more.

The boy wished he had a watch; Jason used to haul around a carton of fake Rolexes in his sea chest. It was unnerving to not know how much time was at his disposal—how long until the vampire rose again. He looked at his sloppy handiwork. _Can't wait any longer; this has gotta be good enough._ _Rest in peace, Bloodsucker Barnabas._

Willie had a reasonable idea of what would follow from his literary and cinematic experience with the horror genre. The vampire's eyes would spring open—_be prepared for that_—it may cry out and blood would gush from its mouth, but the young hero would not falter. He would drive the stake through the monster's heart until it crumbled into ashes and dust. There was no other way out of this situation. He would kill the creature or die trying, but he would not spend the rest of his days as some hellhound's chew toy.

Willie successfully destroyed the vampire and escaped from the cell, whereupon he returned to his loving family in New York, got a real job, married a nice girl with great gazonkas and had two adorable children. The End.

Had the young man been the author of his own life, that might have been the course of events; but he was not.

Someday Willie would understand that this thought transference thing he and the vampire shared could be manipulated to work both ways and, like Barnabas, he might control what was said and heard. But, at present, he lacked that foreknowledge. Otherwise, Willie would have known that, although the vampire took his repose during daylight hours, he was neither unconscious of his surroundings, nor of the victim to whom he was telepathically bound by blood.

The vampire lay in his coffin, eyes closed, waiting for Willie to launch his attack. He was somewhat distressed at the duplicity of this new servant, but mindful that this was a new age, and he had been fully aware of the fellow's deviant nature before choosing him. Perhaps, he reasoned, appropriate behaviors can be taught if they are, in fact, not instinctual.

Willie opened the casket and confirmed that the monster was still asleep. He held the wooden stake in hand and was reaching for the mallet when Barnabas sprung up and took him by surprise.

"Traitorous cur!" He pinned Willie to the wall by his throat while seizing the boy's hand and the stake within his fist.

Barnabas twisted the other's wrist until the stick, high in the air, was aimed at his opponent's face. Willie struggled futilely and pulled on the hand gripping his throat, but he had neither the strength to resist nor breath to yell. Barnabas brought down the stake to within an inch of his victim's eyes. Willie squeezed them shut and managed to choke out words.

"I d-d-din—I w-w-as…"

Barnabas abruptly relinquished his grasp and let Willie tumble. The stake clattered across the floor. "I beg your pardon. You what? Speak up, boy."

"I—uh, I wa-wasn't d-doin' anything," he whispered hoarsely.

"Is that so?" Barnabas, brow raised, looked deliberately at the wooden stick across the room. Willie rubbed his throat. He tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry.

"That. Oh…Uh, I'm sorry I m-messed it up. I have this p-penknife, see, an' I got b-b-bored . . ."

Barnabas looked at Willie. Willie looked at Barnabas. It was too lame to continue.

"You realize," the vampire said sighing, "you are an embarrassingly bad liar." Willie looked at the floor, humiliated at the accusation. "This behavior is simply not acceptable. We must have an understanding. If I am to be your master, and you are to serve me, I shall demand your unquestioning obedience and loyalty. In return, you may expect to continue, in one form or another, your despicable existence. Is that clear?"

"Sure, I mean, yessir," Willie's reply was immediate.

The vampire tilted up the young man's chin to make eye contact. "There will be no second chances, and I shall not repeat myself, do you understand? This will not happen again."

"N-no, sir."

"I daresay it will not." He reached into the coffin, retrieved the wolf-head cane and advanced upon his insubordinate servant.

_Oh, fuck!_

Willie scrambled out of reach but not for long. Barnabas grabbed the boy's upper arm and hauled him back on his knees, whereupon the vampire brought down repeated full force blows along the length of his back. Willie clawed at the arm restraining him, hollering until the last vestiges of his voice were spent.

Afterwards, he crawled back to his corner and lay on the stone floor curled into a ball, his heart pounding, panting through dry, cracked lips. But he did not cry, because there was nothing left with which to create tears.

Barnabas donned his coat, smoothing the folds of wool. "Under the circumstances, I shall feed myself tonight—given your demonstrated skill in that matter," he said dryly. "You may use this time to reflect upon your transgressions."

He pushed aside a stone in the step, revealing the lever which opened the entrance. Willie watched with disinterest. Now the knowledge of how to leave brought him no consolation, because he couldn't leave. _Not ever. _Barnabas smiled and blew out the candles.

"Good evening," he said and closed the door.

Willie did not move. He shut his eyes and tried to forget the total darkness, of which he was growing increasingly frightened. Every noise in the chamber was something reaching out to grab him. Wind-whipped tree branches thudded against the outside wall. A spider crawled over his hand. Pounding heat pulsed up and down his back from his shoulders to his thighs. He wanted to go to sleep and never wake up, but sleep would not come.


	4. Day Four (Day of Reckoning)

**Day Four (the day of reckoning)  
**_**Please see Chapter 1 for A/N**_

* * *

The wee hours of the morning found Willie propped against the wall with his jacket pulled around him, teeth chattering. He felt around for the matches in his pocket, but there were only two left, and they were damp. Barnabas had blown out the candles; did that mean he wasn't allowed to light them again? He hadn't said not to, but maybe the vampire was making him sit in the dark on purpose because it knew that was beginning to freak him out.

Back in the penitentiary, Willie had been in solitary confinement a number of times and had tolerated it better than most. So, it was not as if he had never before been locked up in a dark, windowless cell for days at a time. But in the Hole you slept a good deal, were inclined to be hot, instead of cold, and you got fed once a day, even if it was bread and water. Sounded like a vacation right about now.

He had messed up enough for one day and decided to not relight the candles. Who cared, anyway? He was dead meat. A sailor once told him how long a person could go without fresh water. Was it a week? Willie didn't even care about the food anymore, but his throat felt like sandpaper. Maybe it would be better just to take the switchblade, slit his own throat and finish the job—except the blade was now all busted up. The young man coughed, lay down and curled up tight, the flagstone floor cooling his flushed cheek.

Willie fervently wished he was drunk again, not for fun, just enough to pass out and go to sleep—a little Novocain for the brain—and body. He struggled to find a comfortable position, for his back still burned with a dull ache, and at times it stung and itched, but the boy reasoned that it could have been worse; Old Barney had probably pulled his punches. Vampires, as everyone knew, had superhuman strength; it could easily have killed him.

This way its victim could die much more slowly, but die he would—and go straight to hell. There was no doubt about that. Everything this shanty Irish shit had ever done had been for the sole benefit and pleasure of Mr. Willie Loomis. He couldn't recall one single good deed or act of kindness to a stranger. Even doings that seemed benevolent were always ploys to get something out of somebody.

But, there might be a loophole. Back in school, Sister Mary Perpetua once said that if you drop dead coming out of church, right after you went to Confession, they have to take you in heaven—it was a rule. He didn't know if it would work unless there was a priest around, but it was worth a try.

_Bless me, fadda—uh whoever—for I have sinned; it has been…_

How long had it been? Ten years? More like forever; Willie had never made an honest confession in his life. _Skip that part._ Should he start at the very beginning or at the end and work backwards? The young man struggled to recount his earliest memory. It was of his first and last birthday party, in 1961.

They say, when you are about to die, your life flashes before your eyes. For Willie it was a random recollection of sitting at Bob's bar on Christmas Eve, twenty years ago, blowing out the tea candle which sat atop a cupcake, making the same wish he made every year. The child was perched on a short stack of phonebooks and when they slid to one side, he grabbed his friend, Charlie, for support. The barroom bum lost his balance and toppled, bringing the boy down on top of him. They rolled on the floor, laughing like a couple of drunks.

That had been the best birthday ever, even if his wish never did come true.

_Bless me fadda, for I have sinned. Are ya sittin' down? This is gonna take a while. _

Again Willie attempted to organize his thoughts.

_I'm sorry I stole all those quarters from Lydia's purse—that's my mom_, he explained to God.

_I'm sorry I said curse words to Karen Brindisi, but not Donna; she was a—never mind._

_I'm sorry I wrote my name in the hallway._

_I'm sorry I stole Charlie's beer—and all that other booze from Bob, when he was always nice to me. That was wrong._

_I'm sorry I cheated on a test; well, on all the tests._

_I'm sorry I stole that library book. I meant to take it back. _

_I'm sorry I tried to steal Mrs. Malone's jewelry. I'm real sorry about that. _

_I'm sorry I hung John Paul Flynn out the window—but everybody else was doin' it, and I didn't want them to think I was queer. _

_I'm sorry I drank wine with Father Donahue. . . I shoulda said "No, thank you." _

_I'm sorry I—I wanna skip the next part, if that's okay. Let's just say I'm sorry, alright? If you're this big, all-knowin' god, then you already know. If fact, why do I haveta tell ya any of—_

The boy took a few minutes to clear his mind and refocus on the task.

_Okay, never mind. I'm sorry ripped off—oh, shit . . . _

Now, it was going to complicated. He squeezed his eyes shut with no idea where to start. The parade of suckers flooded his brain and he smiled to himself, remembering what it was like to take candy from a baby—big, gawky babies with Jewfros and hundred dollar sneakers.

_I'm sorry I ripped off those two geeks on the Boardwalk and hid the score from Jason. (Wait—is it a sin to steal from a thief? What the hell, better say it anyway.)_

_I'm sorry I kicked that Mexican guy in the balls. But I'm not really, 'cause I woulda got plugged otherwise. I'm nobody's bitch._

_What would Jesus have done? _It was the voice of Sister Mary Francis in the darkness.

_I dunno, Sista. _

_Yes, you do. He would have turned the other cheek. _

_He woulda got plugged. Why do we wanna be like Jesus, so we all can end up nailed to a piece of wood? _

_You're going to hell, William. _

_Okay then, forget it._ There was no way he was going to remember every wallet or watch he stole, every lie he ever told, every fight he ever picked, everyone he ever fucked—for love or money, everyone he ever fucked over.

_Oh shit, I deserve to go to hell._

Willie propped himself up as his gut went into another spasm and he dry heaved for several minutes. Feeling light headed, he fell back onto his side in an effort to dispel the nausea and vertigo. The blackness became speckled with gray, fuzzy dots that grew and joined each other until they dominated his vision.

_I'm sorry I let loose an evil undead vampire monster that's gonna kill me . . . kill other . . . other people, cows, rhinos—I'm sorry. . . I'm really . . . _

Finally, he drifted asleep and dreamed about the old neighborhood in Brooklyn, where the boy was riding on a trolley car. He pushed the levers to lower the little metal window and, after watching the palm trees swaying along the avenue, closed his eyes and enjoyed the cool breeze on his face.

Willie awoke lying on his stomach and wearing sunglasses. He could feel the hot bright sun on his back and smell Bain de Soleil. That meant, yes, Curley was lying on the chaise beside him. He heard waves crashing on the shore and seagulls calling, which was weird because they were at the pool. The boy's throat was parched, but his pretty blonde girlfriend instinctively knew this and ordered two frozen piña coladas from a passing waitress in a kimono. Curley noticed that his back was badly sunburned and applied cool, soothing lotion all over it. He flipped over, and she softly kissed his bare chest, his neck, his lips. He nuzzled into her hair and deeply inhaled the inviting aromas of coconut and almond.

"Drink first." She said, flashing her perfect white teeth at him. Curley returned to her lounge chair and went to sleep.

Willie waited, but the cocktails did not arrive. Seagulls circled overheard crying madly as dark clouds overpowered the sun and the wind intensified to a violent velocity, causing palm trees to bend and swoop. He was cold and perspiring at the same time. Upon reaching up to wipe the sweat from his neck, his hand came back covered in red. The boy thrust his palm back to stop the flow, but blood gushed out between his fingers, splattering everywhere. Willie sprang upright and spotted Jason on the deck dancing with Raquel; she was nibbling on his ear—no, she was feeding from his jugular. Willie tried to call for help but his body was paralyzed and barely audible rasping came from his mouth as his partner collapsed on the boards. Willie turned and reached out a bloody hand to Curley, but she was dead. Her skin was gray and cracked, and shiny with sun oil. (6)

Willie opened his eyes, back in the cold, black void. There were shuffling sounds outside the cell, and the young man slowly realized that was what had awakened him. Someone was in the mausoleum.

"Willie!" He heard a muffled call. "Willie, are you in here?" It was Jason. He was saved.

"Jas—help—plea…" Barely more than a scratchy whisper came out. His throat was on fire, and so swollen he could barely breathe. Willie tried to crawl toward the door, to the source of his friend's voice, and bumped into the coffin bier. He grabbed onto it like a life preserver and pulled himself up. "Don' go—"

Leaning on the casket, he stumbled a few steps before his legs caved in and he collapsed, knocking himself out as his head hit the floor.

* * *

(6) Curley was a girl Willie had met in Panama. Raquel was Willie's and Jason's business partner/lover from the same scenario.


	5. Day Five

**Barnabas' telepathic communications with Willie are _underlined and italicized._  
****Please see Chapter 1 for additional A/N**

* * *

There were two monsters just inches away from his face. Willie flinched and pulled back, but a hand landed on his chest and kept him in place. By the golden glow of candlelight, the double heads merged into Barnabas, who knelt beside his servant, cradling his head with one hand. The vampire studied him with a slightly concerned look. He lifted up Willie's eyelids and passed a finger before his face, telling him to follow the motion.

"Well, I think you'll live," was the master's light-hearted prognosis as he scooped up the boy and repositioned him in his usual corner. "Pardon me, I stepped on you coming in. You do not usually sleep in the middle of the floor."

Barnabas removed his coat and set it on the steps with his walking stick and newspaper. Then, with the slightest sigh of resignation, he returned to the shivering young man and covered him with his windbreaker.

"It would seem you need to recuperate somewhat. You may return to Collinwood today."

_What was that?_ Willie looked at him with confusion.

"Enjoy a brief respite, during which time you will bathe, shave and, oh please, change your clothing. That will make things pleasanter for all."

Willie nodded, a feeling of hope rising in his chest.

Barnabas took his servant by the forearm, gently at first, then increasing the grip to crushing pain as he spoke, to emphasize his words.

"Heed me, boy. You will return here precisely at sunset. If you speak of this, or disclose my whereabouts to anyone, you will endanger their lives as well as your own."

Then, as if to ensure compliance and strengthen their bond, the vampire tore Willie's sleeve away and thrust the emaciated wrist to his mouth. The young man moaned at the sensation but did not struggle. There would be no point. He closed his eyes and waited to pass out.

Willie awoke several hours later. He didn't know how long he had slept, but Barnabas was resting in his coffin and the candles burnt low in their holders. Maybe it had been part of the dream. Did the vampire say he could leave? Had Jason been there? He tore a strip from his shirt where the sleeve had ripped and with it tied a bandage to hide the new wounds. The other wrist had healed and so had his neck. He opened the stone door as he had seen the vampire do, and stepped outside.

It was late morning by the sun's position, and overcast, but the gray, filtered light still overwhelmed Willie. He stood dazed for several minutes, mindlessly staring at tombstones before trudging off in the direction of the side street where his truck was parked. In the distance a dog barked and children laughed. Willie looked at the little house on the corner and, without thinking, lumbered into the backyard and turned on the hose. The young man splashed the water on his face and drank greedily, letting the liquid flow down his blistered throat in soothing rivers.

Willie dropped the hose and, clutching his stomach, bent over and forcefully vomited. After a few minutes, he had sufficiently recovered to stop panting and release his grip on the porch railing; he managed to rinse his mouth with the hose water, then gargle with it, and finally dared a little sip.

Another pair of eyes met his. They belonged to a little girl in overalls and a pink parka who stood frozen on the back porch; she had dropped her jaw and her jump rope. Willie reached slowly to turn off the hose and raised his hand to her in a gesture that said, _Shh, it's okay…_

The child stared at the haggard stranger with gray skin, matted hair and torn, bloody clothing, before releasing an earsplitting high-pitched scream. She turned and dashed back into the house, slamming the door behind her and yelled, "Zombies! In the back yard!"

Without further ado, Willie found his truck and set off for Collinwood.

* * *

_HOOOOONK!_

Willie's head snapped up from the steering wheel, jarred awake by a blaring car horn. The lady in the Buick behind him did not approve of the shaggy kid napping at the red light, which had now turned green. He looked for a spot to pull over for a short rest when Willie realized he was down the street from the Blue Whale Tavern, his second home. It would be open for lunch by now, and he could sit down for a few minutes. Maybe close his eyes.

Even Bob, who had seen a lot in his years of doling drinks to the salty dogs of Collinsport, looked askance when the young man slumped into a seat at the bar, stifling a cough. Without comment, the bartender poured a double shot straight up and said hesitantly, "Here, buddy, it's on the house."

With concerted effort, Willie raised the glass to his lips but slammed it back down. The alcohol's smell turned his stomach and for a moment he felt like he might puke again. The young man folded his arms on the bar and rested there.

* * *

"Loomis . . . Loomis." Willie lifted his head. There was probably a law against sleeping in bars. The voice came from behind, but there was no need to turn around; he knew from the authoritative tone, it was Burke Devlin. "Why are you back here? I told you to get out of town."

"Sorry."

Burke interpreted his mumbling as sarcasm. "Are you looking for another fight? Because I'm not busy right now. Meet me out back."

The young man stared at the bottles lining the back of the bar. "I don't wanna fight." He coughed again.

"Well, then you shouldn't have—" Willie slipped off the stool and, grabbing the bar, caught himself before hitting the floor. He climbed carefully back into the chair. "Hey, are you alright? Maybe you've had enough." But the big man could see that Loomis wasn't drunk; maybe he was sick. The hoodlum looked pale as a ghost, his eyes and cheeks were sunk in and darkly contoured. His hand shook too hard to hold the glass in front of him.

Burke spoke to him in a lower tone. "Listen, Loomis—about that fight the other day: I might have kicked you in the kidney or something. You look like you might have some sort of internal damage."

"I'm fine. Lemme alone."

"Maybe you should go to a hospital—"

"I said fuck off."

Devlin wasn't about to hit him in this condition, but had run out of patience. "Suit yourself," he turned sharply and walked away.

The next time Willie looked up the bartender was tapping his shoulder. "I called your buddy up at Collinwood, and he's coming to get you. Don't die on me, okay?"

"Sure, Bob." He made an effort to keep his head up for the next few minutes.

* * *

"Don't ya say hello anymore?" Willie looked around and his old friend was standing beside him.

"Jason—" He almost smiled. "Hi."

"Where've you been? I've been lookin' for you for days. You were so drunk, I thought you finally did it and drove off a bridge. Then I spotted your truck parked over by the old cemetery. What were you doin' in there?"

"Went for a walk."

"Well, it looks like you went on a bender. See, I knew you were takin' it hard—our breakin' up, but, dear lord, I didn't think you'd go to pieces like this."

"Sorry."

"Well, stop worryin'. It need not be permanent. Once Liz and I have tied the knot, I'll be in a better position to, shall we say, dictate policy. Nobody pushes around Jason McGuire, am I right?"

"Okay."

The Irishman turned his friend's head to examine his face. "Let's see that moneymaker." He peered worriedly into Willie's eyes, taking note of his disproportionally dilated pupils and continued in a whisper. "Are you on drugs? What did you take?"

"Nothin'." Willie coughed a spell. "I think I got . . . I dunno."

"Alright. Finish your rum; let's get out of here."

"Don't want it."

Jason did a double take at his young friend, who was very ill indeed, because it was extremely uncharacteristic for him to turn down a libation, under any circumstances. Bob was also baffled, looked at him and shrugged. Meanwhile, Willie's head was going down for the third time.

"Come on." Jason pulled the lad to his feet and guided him out the door toward his truck. He opened the passenger side door, pushed Willie in and climbed in the driver's seat. "I don't know on what on God's good earth I'm goin' to say to Liz."

"Where's your car, Jason?" Willie handed over the keys and leaned against the window like a rag doll.

"Oh, the Caddy? It's in the shop, I think," he replied dismissively, clearing his throat. "Mrs. Johnson gave me a lift into town."

"It sure was a nice car." _I knew they'd take it back_. _Now I'll never getta ride in it._

Jason drove back to Collinwood where he and his mate encountered Elizabeth in the foyer, arguing with Carolyn about her forthcoming plans for the day with her new boyfriend. She was about to travel to Bangor with Buzz to see him perform with his punk rock band, the Rude Mechanicals. They were playing two sets, so he and Carolyn would probably spend the night there.

"I need to speak to you for a moment, Liz." Jason interrupted their conversation as he propped Willie up at the banister.

"We have nothing to discuss until that ruffian is gone." Elizabeth didn't want to say more in front of her daughter.

"In the drawin' room, if you please." Jason firmly guided her into the next room and closed the double doors.

Carolyn buttoned her leather coat, not looking at Willie. "I heard you took off for a few days. You could tell, it was so nice and quiet. Tell me, did you molest anyone?" She picked up her valise, twirling her car keys. "If your pushy friend thinks he's going to get you back in here, don't count on it."

"Sorry." He sat down on the stairs, coughing.

"I don't know which incident you're apologizing for, but I'm very sorry I didn't shoot you when I had the chance." She stopped briefly when she caught a glance of him leaning against the newel post with his pale, gaunt face and despondent demeanor. A look of fleeting concern crossed her face but quickly passed. "Au revoir, Mr. Loomis. But, since we travel in different circles, I doubt we'll meet again." And she was out the door.

Willie wrapped his arms around himself and hunched over. His left leg started to shake. Where was Jason? Why did he leave him out there? He could hear voices from the other room, arguing.

_Do not forget me, Willie. I shall be waiting for you at sunset._

That wasn't Jason or Mrs. Stoddard, it was the painting. It was looking at him.

_You know what will happen if you disobey me._

The young man tried to stand up; he wanted to get away from there, away from the haunted portrait, but two steps later he passed out on the floor.

Willie opened his eyes, waiting for the room to come into focus. He hand flailed weakly until it hit Jason, who was sitting on the bed next to him. "Where am I?"

"Back in your room. You fainted downstairs and I brought you up. Boy, have you lost weight." He helped Willie remove his jacket. "Rest easy, now. She's none too happy, but I convinced Liz to let you stay till you're well. So, maybe you'll be up to tellin' me where you've been for five days." Willie fell back onto the pillow. "Or why there's blood on your coat sleeve," Jason continued. "Or—what's that bandage?" He untied the cloth binding his pal's wrist.

Willie pulled away. "It's nothin'. Gave a freebie to a cop who cuffed me."

The Irishman looked at him dubiously and felt his forehead. "You have a bit of a fever, m'lad, and I'm goin' to call in a doctor."

The boy waved him off. "No, I'm okay. Just got a sore throat. Would ya get me a glass a' water?"

"I'll have Mrs. Johnson make you a tray—"

"Not hungry. Just need a drink. Drink a' water."

When the older man returned, Willie was nowhere to be seen—just his clothes in a trail across the floor from the bed to the door. Jason examined the boy's shirt, which was torn not only at the cuffs, but across the back, and accented with bloodstains.

He went back into the hall and headed for the bathroom, following the sound of running water. Knocking softly on the door, the Irishman stepped in quietly when there was no answer.

"Willie?" He hesitantly pushed open the beveled glass door to discover the boy was sitting in the corner of the oversized shower stall. He was hugging his knees, rocking back and forth, trembling.

Jason couldn't believe this was his same partner. "What's the matter with you?"

Willie held his soapy hands out in front of him, covered in blond hairs. "I think my hair's fallin' out."

His partner turned off the water and pulled him out of the stall. "Alright, tough guy, let's get you out of there before ya drown."

"I ain't so tough," Willie quoted James Cagney as he wrapped a towel around his waist.

"I can see that." The Irishman put another towel around his shoulders. "Mother of God, what happened to your back? You're all banged up."

"I dunno. Fell down. Whatever." Jason started to lead him out the door but Willie stopped. "No. Wanna brush my teeth. Mouth tastes like puke."

Later, Jason tucked his young friend back into bed, wrapped in two fluffy towels and under the warm comforter. He brushed aside Willie's damp hair and fed him little sips of water. The boy coughed a bit, but nothing came back up.

"Next time you go prancin' down the hall, put a robe on, if ya please."

"Sorry."

Willie sat up with a start; he was alone and the room was dark. How long had he been asleep? He leapt out of bed with renewed energy and ran to the window.

_Shit, it's way past sundown. _

He was really late. He tossed aside the towels and grabbed his duffle bag on the chair, ripping through its contents: dirty, dirty, almost clean, good enough. The boy threw on a pair of jeans—they were baggy for some reason—a tee shirt and a sweat shirt, grabbed his jacket and tore down the stairs.

His foot caught and he clutched the railing to keep from tumbling down the steps. Maybe he wasn't well yet. The scuffle caught the attention of Jason who entered from the drawing room, bewildered to see the young man downstairs.

"What are you doin' up and about? You're supposed to be sick."

Willie backed toward the door. "All better, and I gotta go do somethin'."

Jason took him by the arm. "What you got to do is go back to bed. I think you're delirious."

Willie let the Irishman guide him as far as the staircase, then wriggled out of his grasp, pushed his partner onto the stairs and bolted out the front door. By the time Jason reached the door in pursuit, the white pickup was spitting gravel down the driveway.

Willie pulled up in front of the cemetery, climbed the fence and raced to the mausoleum. The room and the coffin were empty—no signs of vampire life. His next thought was to try Tanner's farm. He jumped back into the truck and headed toward Alms-House Road, muttering to himself.

"Don't be mad don't be mad don't be mad . . ."

The fence surrounding the pasture was newly topped with barbed wire so the prowler had to shimmy under the rail—so much for clean clothes. He sprinted to the barn but found it was padlocked. Apparently Farmer Tanner didn't appreciate having his livestock picked off. Willie wasn't sure what to do next as he walked back to the pickup. He was crawling back under the rail when he spotted Italian leather ankle boots and the tip of a walking stick, and looked up to see his boss standing in front of the truck.

Willie scrambled to his feet. "I'm sorry, B-Barnabas, I mean, sir, I-I know I'm late, b-but—don't be mad."

"I'm not angry, boy." The vampire's voice was calm, almost as if he were concealing a smirk. "But I am disappointed. I thought that you had abandoned your seditious ways. Because of your lack of punctuality, I was left to my own devices."

Willie wasn't sure what that meant, but he hung his head. "I'm sorry."

"Now there is something you must do. Look in the rear of your vehicle."

Willie climbed into the truck bed where, amongst his other tools, he found a shovel and something wrapped in the tarp.

"Proceed."

Willie cautiously peeled the plastic and jumped back in horror. It was the body of a girl, maybe 19 or 20 years old. Except for the red gash at her throat, her skin was bluish gray. Her eyes stared ahead at nothing.

"You are entirely to blame for this young woman's demise, so I leave it to you to dispose of the remains. I suggest somewhere in the woods." Willie sat in stunned silence until Barnabas reached up and tapped him with his cane. "And take care, lest you be discovered. I shall see you on the morrow."

Willie's head whipped around. "Where ya goin'?"

Slightly surprised at his servant's insolence, Barnabas let it pass and smiled cordially. "I am off to make another social call on my cousins at Collinwood. Shall I give your regards to Mr. McGuire?"

"No," the boy replied, looking away. "Don't do that."

"Till tomorrow evening, then." And the vampire flew away.

Willie just sat in the truck bed, staring at the woman's corpse, too horrified to move. It wasn't until the flood lights came on outside the Tanner residence that he was startled back to reality, jumped into the cab and sped off into the darkness.

Willie dug throughout the night. It was exhausting labor for the ground was cold, hard and full of rocks, but he wanted the hole to be as deep as possible; it wouldn't do for animals to dig the evidence back up. He sat at the edge of the cavity next to the girl's body. She was staring at him through the dirt specks on her eyeballs.

_Be careful_, Barnabas had said.

Five or six years ago Willie had been in the woods at night with a dead body, or a severely injured one. It was a sadistic, sick fuck of a police officer whom the boy had shot in self defense. That time he had been reckless but lucky. But now he had a prison record and fingerprints on file, so there were decisions to be made, and his criminal logic raised pertinent questions.

Tarp or no tarp? Without a coffin, the plastic cloth was better than dumping her unprotected body in the ground. But they'll probably send out search parties with blood hounds. If they find the body, then that tarp could possibly be traced back to him. No tarp.

Maybe he should remove other identifying items, like clothes and jewelry. Willie looked at the topaz in her class ring. _Christ, no, don't take anything. That would really be stupid._ He decided to let her be. She should be found and identified; that way her loved ones would have closure and give her a decent burial. The pretty girl probably had a loving mother, and a father, siblings and a boyfriend. What will they think when they learn she was murdered and dumped in a dirt hole? And, before that, she had been—Willie didn't know which verb to use, and didn't want to think about it. But he knew what it felt like, and it made him sick.

He rolled the cadaver from the tarp into the ground and poured in a shovelful of earth. Then he stopped and dropped to his knees, unable to look away from the girl's accusing stare.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—it's all my fault. You didn't deserve this, none of it. I'm the one should be in there, not you." Then he realized he would end up like that someday, no doubt about it—if he was lucky. Barnabas might just toss out his carcass for the bears to eat. There would be no search parties for Willie Loomis, because no one would give a flying fuck when he was dead. Even his best pal had tried to get rid of him. He might as well jump in there with the corpse now.

_Do not tempt me. _

Willie had forgotten that he was broadcasting his feelings to the vampire.

_Enough of your maudlin diatribe. Get on with it before you attract attention to yourself. _

He scrambled to his feet and started swiftly shoveling. When the boy was finished, he spread autumn leaves across the top and examined his handiwork. Gathering his belongings, Willie looked around for anything which might be a clue. Satisfied, he started off but stopped for a moment and conducted a brief funeral service at the grave.

_Holy Mary, mother a' God,  
__Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death amen. _

He almost added,_ r__e__st in peace, _but, under the circumstances, it seemed like a stupid thing to say_._


	6. Day Six

**Barnabas' telepathic communications with Willie are _underlined and italicized._  
Please see Chapter 1 for addional A/N**

* * *

Shortly after daybreak, Willie staggered into Collinwood. He used the service entrance in the rear to avoid attention. Mrs. Johnson was not up yet, so no one saw as he emerged from the kitchen—except for Jason, that is. He had the sharpest eyes and ears in the business. And his business right then was the wayward Willie.

"Just where do you think you're goin'?" the Irishman demanded. "You little shite. I stuck my neck out for you, bringin' ya back here. Risked the whole deal, and what do you do?"

"I'm sorry." Willie leaned on the banister.

"_I'm sorry_." Jason was furious. "Is that all you can say? Because I know where you were. I had a chat with wee David who told me all about your long conversations about buried family jewels. _That's_ why you were in the cemetery, wasn't it, Willie? That's why you're all covered in dirt."

"No—well, maybe. I dunno."

"I didn't think even you could sink so low. Ah, but that's you, isn't it? Always havin' to make your own score; never learned to share, did ya? And me with $500 here waitin' for ya. Tell me why I bothered." The boy mumbled something incoherent. "So, you won't confide in me? Well, I've no use for a partner who betrays me, betrays my trust."

Willie's brain was telling the old man to shut up, just for a minute. He had such a horrible hangover; at least, that's what it felt like.

"Well, you can get right back in your truck and turn around," the Irishman continued. "I got your kit all packed."

Willie started to slide down the newel post. "Can I sit down for a minute? I don't feel so good."

Jason grabbed the boy by his jacket and pulled him upright. "Don't be givin' me that again. You weren't ill last night. Hardy enough to knock me over, you were, and that'll be the day, when a runt like you gets the best of this Irishman."

Willie's vision became overcast with those gray spots again. He thought Jason was across the room, standing at the hall table but, no, he was in the boy's face, eyes glaring and fist raised.

"Don't—I'm—so cold." He meant to say hot. Numb. Tired. Sick.

Jason was not buying yet another line of the kid's bullshit. "What you need, m'lad, is a breath of brisk morning air to perk you up."

He pried Willie off the banister and pushed him toward the door, but the young man's legs buckled, and he went down on his hands and knees with a thud. Reaching up to his former partner, he pleaded, "Jason, you're my friend—please—help me."

"Oh, stop it. How many times are you goin' to pull that bit? Do you think I'm stupid? Get up." He yanked Willie to his feet, whereupon the young man collapsed into his arms, unconscious. "Willie, knock it off." There was no answer. "Willie!" Jason picked him up and started upstairs. "If you're fakin' again, I swear to God Almighty. . ."

* * *

McGuire spent the better part of the morning in the chair across from Willie's bed, watching with consternation as his friend curled into a fetal position, flinched, thrashed about, shivered, covered his head with his arms, covered his head with the pillow, and sprang up screaming with a wide-eyed hypnopompic jerk. Then he would fall back on the bed and the restless ritual would begin again. At one point, the boy tumbled onto the floor, and when the Irishman dropped him back in bed, Willie clutched his arm and mumbled, "Look, Jason, a whale."

Doctor Woodard arrived shortly before lunchtime. Willie was awakened for the examination and afterwards overheard the physician's conversation with Jason from across the room as he wrote out two prescriptions.

Stage 2 starvation, dehydration, hypothermia, a bronchitis/strep throat combination, and a nice little concussion—these were all things that could have happened by getting lost in the woods for several days, but the rapid heart rate and low blood pressure were due to some kind of severe hemorrhage, and the doctor could find no explanation as to how that might have occurred. The punctures on his wrist were too small and had healed without incident.

The hair loss could be from malnutrition but more likely some sort of emotional shock. Sometimes patients pull it out themselves without realizing it. Did anything stressful happen?

"I'm thinkin' maybe it did, but he won't say what, and won't tell me where he's been," recalled Jason. "He's been shakin' all over and tossin' in his sleep—and he has all those bruises."

"Possibly from a fall," the doctor said, repacking his bag. "You said he's a heavy drinker. He may not even remember it happening."

_I remember it happening._ The patient rolled over and fell back to sleep.

* * *

"Willie. Willie. Willie. Willie."

The mattress was moving up and down. He was being poked in the arm. The young man opened his eyes to find David bouncing cheerfully on the bed next to him.

"Hi, Willie, did I wake you? Mr. McGuire said you were really sick and couldn't get up, so I came to keep you company." He held up a book. "I'm supposed to be studying literature right now, so I brought it with me. It's called _One Thousand and One Nights_. Do you want me to read them to you?"

"Not all of 'em."

"Well, this is the most famous one; it's called _Aladdin_." David proceeding to share the tale of an impoverished young ne'er-do-well who is conned by an evil sorcerer into the booby-trapped cave of wonders with promises of riches and jewels, and the boy is trapped there. He has a magic ring, though, and escapes when he releases the genie inside. Now, he also has a magic lamp with an even more powerful genie and that's what the evil sorcerer wants. But, meanwhile, Aladdin falls in love with the Emperor's daughter and—

"They stole that from a TV show." Willie interrupted, and the child looked up from his book. "The part about the genie in the bottle that grants wishes. They stole that."

Victoria Winters knocked politely and entered the room with a tray which Mrs. Johnson had prepared. The governess dismissed her young charge, scolding him for bothering Mr. Loomis when he was so ill. She set the tray on his bedside table and looked away shyly. Willie realized at that point he was wearing nothing but briefs and quickly pulled the blanket up. He was not a modest man by nature, but this bony, bruised body was nothing to show off at present.

"Mrs. Johnson washed your clothes. I'm sure they'll be ready soon. Mr. McGuire—you know . . ." Vicki made a vague gesture in his direction.

"That was real nice a' her."

"She also made you this tray. Just some clear broth and apple juice with glucose added—that's what the doctor recommended to start with. He said you have to take it slowly."

Willie made a face. "Not hungry."

"If you don't eat, you will eventually die. I don't think you want that to happen."

Vicki held the juice out to him. His stomach churned at the smell and his hand trembled so much, it splashed onto the covers until she grabbed it back. Ever practical and considerate, Miss Winters inserted a bendy-straw into the glass and covered the rest of the opening with her hand to mask the aroma. She then held it for him as he took small sips of the sickeningly sweet solution.

When the glass was half empty, Victoria took it away and did the same with the cup of broth which, in contrast, was over-seasoned with salt. Willie turned away for a moment, not sure if it was coming back up.

"Slower," said Miss Winters. "Just a little bit for now."

The young man held his hand up when he could take no more. His stomach was doing somersaults. Victoria removed the tray.

"Let that digest. I'll ask Mrs. Johnson to bring you more later."

"Thanks, Vicki, I mean Miss Winters. Thanks a lot."

"You're welcome." Her voice was noncommittal. "I hope you feel better."

"And I'm sorry," he mumbled, almost to himself. "Really sorry."

"For what exactly?"

Willie struggled to remember. "I dunno. Just for bein' a fuck-up."

Miss Winter stiffened. "You'll excuse me," she replied flatly.

"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to say fuck-up. I'm sorry I was such a dick—uh, jerk—and upset you."

"I see. Are you just saying that now because you're ill?"

He considered the question. "Yeah. Prob'ly."

Victoria paused in the doorway. "Well, at least you're honest." And she left.

Willie lay back down. No one had ever called him that before.

* * *

"Loomis. Wake up, Loomis."

Willie was dreaming about donuts. It was Free Donut Day at Krispy Kreme and he was putting them away like there was no tomorrow. Stuffing sweet treats in his mouth, one after another, and washing them down with hot, strong coffee. They were warm and soft and creamy and – _whoa_. His stomach lurched and did an Olympic backflip. He woke just in time to clutch the bed and barf over the side onto the floor.

Light colored loafers came into view. Willie's focus continued up and settled upon the Collinwood resident he least wanted to see: Jolly Roger.

"Thank you so much," Mr. Collins said with his usual sardonic scowl as he stepped gingerly out of his splattered shoes. "First I learn that _the Imaginary Invalid_ has returned as a guest to us, and now—well, who could ask for a fonder greeting?"

"Sorry." Willie pulled the blanket up to his chin and used it to wipe his mouth.

"Not nearly as sorry as I am." Roger abandoned the shoes and removed himself from the range of fire in the event of future assaults by sitting in the armchair across the room. "Well. My sister has asked me to inform you that she has housed you, fed you and paid your doctor bill. But, sadly, all good things must come to an end, and it is check-out time."

"Okay." Willie struggled to sit upright. "But I dunno where my clothes are."

"Voilà, your wardrobe awaits." Roger pointed to the young man's laundry stacked neatly on the dresser. Mrs. Johnson had washed, dried, ironed, folded and delivered jeans, tee shirts, button-down, turtleneck, sweatshirt, hoodie and a vest. Next to it was his terrycloth robe, underwear and balled up socks—everything but the bloody, ripped shirt, which was in the waste basket. "Now, if there's anything else we can do to hasten your departure, please don't hesitate to ask."

Roger settled into the occasional chair, crossing his legs. Wasn't he going to leave if he wanted Willie to get dressed? Guess not. After a failed attempt to stand, Willie made his way south, reaching out to steady himself on the footboard. Roger regarded him smugly and offered no assistance. Willie grabbed at the post for support but the momentum caused him to swing off the bed and he landed painfully on his butt in the watery vomit, wincing when his back collided with the bed rail.

The older man roared with delight and applauded. "Bravo, Loomis! Well done. You win the award for Best Performance by an Actor in a Supporting Role!" Willie groped for the blanket and pulled it down to cover himself. "Yes, _please_ do," said Roger, getting an eyeful. "Because you look ghastly."

Loomis leaned his head against the bedpost, nauseated and miserable, unable to stand. _For Crissake, go away and lemme me alone._ But Roger was not about to miss this opportunity to avenge himself of the drawing room incident when the hooligan had humiliated him. He rose and crossed the room, stepping on the blanket to protect his stocking feet, and sat on the bed next to Willie who remained on the floor, clutching his coverlet.

"You probably are not going to understand what I have to say because I assume your education has been minimal. Where did you go to school?"

"St. Jerome's Home for Boys."

"How Dickensian. May we assume that was some sort of a reformatory or workhouse for paupers and orphans?" The young man did not respond. "Until what time did you attend this fine institution?"

Willie deciphered the question. "I dunno. Finished ninth grade." _Almost._

"You must be so proud," Roger smirked with rounded tones. "Well, my dear young man, I have a bachelor's of Philosophy from Cornell and an MBA from Harvard." Willie had no idea what that meant as Collins continued. "And in the course of my undergraduate studies, I researched a concept in Hinduism called Karma, which maintains that every act done, no matter how insignificant, will eventually return to the doer with equal impact. Do you know what that means?"

"I think so."

"That is why no one in this house, myself included, has the slightest sympathy for your predicament." Roger chirped as he rose from the bed. "Now, I mustn't keep you. Your visit has been memorable, but no doubt you have many other calls of a similar nature to make."(7) He gave Willie a parting shot: "Oh, yes, Karma's a bitch."

_So are you. _

* * *

Willie made his way to the window to see the sun sitting low on the horizon. There was no time for self pity; he had to get ready and get out. Away from that miserable house once and for all. Back to his—boss, master, monster, owner—who got pissed off if he was late.

The boy's strength returned with each dying ray of the sun. He mopped up the floor with the bedcovers, balled them up and tossed them in the corner. That was a crappy thing to leave for Mrs. Johnson, especially after she washed his clothes so nicely. In prison you had to be pretty damn rich and powerful to get laundry delivered like that.

Willie ran down the hall to the bathroom where he took a fast shower, brushed his teeth and shaved with the straight edge razor which Jason had given him long before he had been old enough to need it. "A hundred and one uses," the Irishman had said at the time.

The young man struggled to keep his hand steady; the last thing he wanted to do was show up to the vampire covered in shaving nicks. He noticed that the toothpaste smell didn't bother him and took that as a sign that he was getting better and could eat again. _Why is it that when you're finally hungry there are no pretty girls sitting on your bed trying to feed you? _

Keeping careful watch on the sunset's progress, Willie dressed and packed his gear, stuffing in the clothing as neatly as possible, and trudged down the steps. He stopped short at the foot of the stairs to discover Collinwood's entire cast of characters had come out to see him off—that is to say, make sure he was really leaving. Jason stood next to Mrs. Stoddard. Roger leaned on the foyer table near Carolyn. Victoria hovered in the rear, her hands on David's shoulders. Mrs. Johnson peeked through the kitchen door.

Willie stood there embarrassed and tongue-tied as they all stared at him. He felt he should say thank you or sorry or goodbye, something, but each statement was censored for stupidity en route from brain to mouth. Roger broke the silence.

"In an encore performance of the previous evening, we see another miraculous recovery. Dr. Woodard must have magic pills in that bag of his."

Willie had no response and turned to leave. His eye caught the portrait of Barnabas on the wall. The monster would be coming back here again, and even though Roger was a dick, some of these people were real nice to him, and they were all in danger. He didn't want to be responsible for more tragedy.

The departing delinquent turned back to the group who released a collective sigh of dismay. He addressed their leader.

"Mrs. Stoddard, I gotta tell ya somethin'—"

"My sister has no interest in anything you have to say," Roger interjected.

"Yeah, but it's important."

"Careful, Mother," contributed Carolyn in a sing-song voice, "He wants to sta-ay. He's going to suddenly become sick again."

"No, will ya shut up and listen—"

Elizabeth, clearly irritated, took charge of the situation. "That's enough. Your apologies and thanks are accepted and acknowledged. Consider them said." She folded her arms. "Now, it's time for you to leave."

_Your kind not welcome here. _

In an instant Jason was at his side, tugging his arm. "Come along, lad, I'll see you to the door." He took the young man through the portal, out of earshot.

"What was all that about?" Jason hissed. "Were you goin' to say somethin' about me?"

"No, what would I say? You never told me anythin'. It was . . . somethin' else. Not important."

Jason shook his head. "Maybe it's a good thing you're leavin'. We don't make a good team anymore." He looked the gaunt man over. "You've changed." Willie turned away, grimacing. Jason started to put his arm around the boy's shoulder but thought better of it and shook his hand instead.

"I think I'll hold onto me wallet," he said with a grin.

Willie looked at the horizon to note the last vestiges of daylight. He took a halting breath. "What's goin' to happen to me?"

"That's all up to you now, and isn't that what you always wanted? It's not the end, it's a new beginnin'." He slapped Willie on the back. "Ah, stop lookin' like a kicked mongrel—you're a cat; ya always land on your feet."

"Okay." Willie conceded quietly. _You land on your feet, Jason. I always land on my face._

"Oh, and don't forget this," Jason reached into his inside breast pocket and produced an envelope. "Five hundred dollars, as a parting gift from my future wife, or what I like to call the tip of the iceberg." The Irishman nudged him, knowingly. "And when I say iceberg, I'm talkin' about a lot of lettuce." He laughed at his own joke.

Willie didn't know why he would need money in hell, but he took it anyway. Too bulky to stuff in his shoe, he stuffed one bill in his pocket and pushed the envelope to the bottom of his bag. Just in case.

"Head over to the Collinsport Inn and have a rest there till you're feelin' better. I'll come and see ya before ya go. We'll have a drink." He punched Willie's arm and went back in the house.

"Bye, Jason," he said to the closed door.

* * *

Willie stopped at a convenience store to stock up on food, just in case he was going to get stuck in that room again for any extended period of time. He bought two candy bars and a bag a Planters' peanuts, all of which he devoured before reaching the cemetery. He stuffed the empty wrappers in his jacket pocket and pulled out two pieces of paper: prescriptions from that doctor. The young man tossed them on the floor of his truck, along with the other trash.

It was past sunset as Willie raced to the mausoleum. _I'm_ _comin', I'm comin'. Don't kill anybody._

Inside the secret room, the vampire's coffin had been moved to the floor and Barnabas sat on its bier, reading the _Collinsport Star_, as was his custom in the early evening. Blasted across the front page in tall letters was _COED REPORTED MISSING,_ accompanied by the photo of a girl identified as Jane Ackerman. It was her prom picture.

"Come here, boy." Barnabas chuckled and pointed to his favorite feature, _On This Day In 1900_ – or some arbitrary year, which provided interesting historical trivia. Willie shuffled over, staring instead at the headline. The vampire rose and backhanded him into the wall.

"There are times when I seriously question your judgment," he said. "What would possess you to try to warn a room full of people while I am directly behind you?" Barnabas referred, of course, to the portrait in the foyer.

"I d-dunno. Ya said you were goin' there. I d-didn't want ya to hurt 'em," the servant replied from the floor.

"Don't be an idiot. I would never harm my own family. Fortunately for you, nothing was actually said. The only thing that saves you from a worse punishment is your inability to complete a sentence." He lifted Willie up by the shirtfront. "If you _ever_—" he sniffed the shirt. "Dear God, that's much better." Barnabas released him and walked away.

The vampire seemed distracted. He had more important things to ponder—considerations which did not include slow-witted servants, or even cousins at Collinwood. He opened the casket and, scanning the cell, tossed in his cape, cane, newspaper and knapsack. When he seemed satisfied, Barnabas sat again on the coffin support, contemplating the room.

Willie stood silently in the shadows, wiping away the blood on his cheek. _That was from the big, black ring._

_I promised it to you, and you received it. _

Willie rubbed his face._ Sure did. _

"But we digress," The vampire stood. "Come along." He lifted one end of the casket and indicated that the boy should pick up the other. "We are relocating to more spacious accommodations."

* * *

"Freeze! Police!" Willie dropped the coffin the thrust his hands in the air. Barnabas shot his accomplice a disdainful glance at the thought of his sanctuary being damaged. He turned to see, not a law officer but the cemetery's ancient caretaker, standing among the tombstones, aiming a shotgun in their direction.

"Hold it right there. Don't know what you fellas think you're doing, but my tenants come here on a one-way ticket." Willie turned at the sound of his voice. "Oh, it's the cow-boy. Can't wait to hear your story. I bet it's a doozey."

Barnabas smiled graciously at the old timer. "My good man, your enthusiasm, though certainly commendable, is misplaced."

The caretaker lowered the gun, appraising the distinguished looking gentleman before him. Willie couldn't help but think his boss would have made a great con man. He was smooth.

The vampire continued with the apologetic voice of reason as he approached the man. "This is not what it seems, there is a perfectly—" Barnabas flung the rifle from the geezer's hands and proceeded to strangle him to the point of death. At which point, he opened a vein and finished the job.

Willie stood there watching the vampire feed. There was nothing he could say or do. Barnabas felt his eyes and looked up.

_Waste not, want not_.

"No problem. Take your time." As if he had a choice in the matter. His assistant sat on a tombstone and waited. The upside of this turn of events was that the rest of the evening would be a reprieve for Willie, cows and coeds everywhere. _Sorry, old man._

When he felt sated, the vampire rose and indicated they should resume their task.

"Can I have the shotgun?"

Barnabas looked at him skeptically. "Correct me if I'm wrong; you wish to remove evidence from this site that would unequivocally link you to this mishap."

"Oh. Guess not."

"Pick up the coffin."

The casket was loaded onto the back of Willie's truck and he conducted the vampire's first ride in a modern vehicle as they traveled to the Collins estate.

Barnabas gripped the seat and the dashboard, barking orders for the young man to slow down and take the turns with more care or he was likely to have his license revoked, not to mention having to explain what was under the tarp.

"I never had a driver's license, not a real one anyway, and I never once been pulled over; not even when I was stinkin' drunk."

"From what I've heard, my cousin Roger cannot make the same claim. Years ago, there was quite an incident."

Willie was curious. "Could you see everything that was goin' on, I mean, when you were in yer coffin all that time?"

"Sufficient to mark the passage of time. I saw generations come and go for nigh 200 years. It was not completely enlightening, akin to watching isolated scenes of a play. There was tremendous improvement when they moved my portrait from the guest room to the foyer. I replaced a mirror. "

Willie pushed from his mind the disturbing thought of Barnabas watching people in a bedroom.

Barnabas directed him into the entrance to the Collinwood estate and indicated he should turn left at the fork. Willie proceeded without comment but he recognized the road and a growing sense of dread filled his throat. The vampire alighted from the vehicle and swept into the house as if he owned the place.

_Oh, no, you gotta be kiddin'._

"Willie!" Barnabas appeared at the doorway. "Come in. What are you waiting for?"

Willie climbed down from the cab and dragged his feet into the decrepit old mansion.

"This is where I was raised, and now it's going to be our home." Barnabas beamed. The monster seemed delighted at the prospect of spending the rest of its days—and nights—in a filthy, cold shithole. "We shall restore this old house to its former beauty and splendor. Oh, there will be much to keep you occupied."

"I bet." Willie looked dubious, deflating the vampire's enthusiasm somewhat.

"Your opinion is inconsequential," he scowled. "Wherever I choose to dwell, so shall you—for the rest of your life." The words chilled Willie to the bone.

"However long that may be," Barnabas added flippantly. He swung off its coat and, realizing there was no clean place to put it, folded it over his arm. "Now, Willie, you know what you have to do."

"What, no!" Willie looked up in fear. "Don't make me go do that again." He backed into the entrance hall until he hit the staircase. "You already fed off that guy in the graveyard. Please, no."

The vampire towered over him. "What are you talking about? I want to unload the coffin from your truck and take it to the cellar. Now, go!" He pushed the idiot servant toward the front entrance.

Grumbling to himself, Willie trudged back to the pickup, climbed into the bed and proceeded to untie the tarp. He looked up at the melancholy old mansion silhouetted against the moonlit sky.

"Great. Another fuckin' house with no television."

* * *

(7) Roger is quoting Cecily from _The Importance of Being Earnest_ by Oscar Wilde

The End

The Willie Loomis World Series

Little Willie  
Globetrotters  
The Maine Event  
Changes  
This Old House  
Interlude


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